“BPD” - Live, Whores of Babylon lyrics

COLSON. “If I think of all the ways the American elite has made me want to kill myself over the years? I’ll die right now.”

This set starts off strong and to the point.

COLSON. “I spent hours—hours—on Christmas 2022 sending an email to 180 academics at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, and my alma mater. Two at a time; both cc-ed, one white, one non-white. None of them replied.”

The horrendous clangs of literal Hell fill the bookstore.

Dante has landed in the 21st century.

COLSON. “I want to die.”

The video behind me plays one gruesome dehumanization of the sacred human body after another, in non-stop succession, all taken from mainstream Hollywood. The hypocrisy you will see during the Second Coming should literally end the world.

COLSON. “I was an innocent child who didn’t deserve to experience the humanity of the American elite.”

True evil—Satan—fills the video screen.

COLSON. “The First World castle is controlled by people who are metaphysically bad.”

Hell has landed in the 21st century.

COLSON. “I want their afterlives…”

Suddenly, a butterfly floats on stage in a miracle that could only have been divine, or authorial, intervention.
COLSON (confused). “What the f*ck?”

COLSON remembers. The author wants from COLSON what God wants.

COLSON (remembering). “Right. Tell you what, UChicago. If I become the world’s first trillionaire, I’ll send you a copy of my first book—I’ll even sign it and everything.”

COLSON has his mojo back now.

He’s magnetic again—he’s pure charisma. Just look at that humility.

COLSON (smirking). “Look, I’ll pin a $20 inside, that should get your snouts watering.”

COLSON:

Mountains are like tiny fractal fragments from the cosmos
Fragmentin’ cymbals into what, on Earth, might inspire
It’d take Everest to undo my pretensions, Los Alamos
Or what my coherence of reason and God might sire

Oh look. The barbershop quartet’s back.

Everyone’s happy again.

COLSON:

But, wait
You can let your yolo take over
(You only live once)
Man, I can’t even remember what anger feels like
Can you imagine? You?
Endin’ somethin’ like the Second Comin’?
(When I’m mad, I only think that I want to die)
Can you imagine? “You”?
Endin’ somethin’ like the Second Comin’?
(When I’m mad, I only think I want the Earth to fry)
Holy sh*t.

Red and blue Pepsi lights—like ambulance sirens.

A montage of End Times news stories from the past 4 hours fill the backdrop.

COLSON:

Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, too
But riddle me this
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?

COLSON is doing the “Vogue” dance now.

This is outrageously Apocalyptic.

COLSON:

Nietzsche thought it was impossible to see upside-down
Your brain automatically amends your perspective around
You can only “pretend” to misread my smile for a frown
I’ll put your laughter to bed—after yolo? It’s Pound Town
A confetti cannon squirts red confetti all over the climate change-f*cked crowd.

COLSON:

Hades, we’re here
You can always let your impatience take over
(“You only live once”)
Man, I don’t even remember what hope might feel like
Can you? Can you even imagine
Endin’ somethin’ like a timeless suspicion?
(When I’m grounded? I only “think” I can be mad)
Can you imagine? “You”?
Endin’ somethin’ like man’s last intermission?
(When I’m grounded, I only “think” I can lose my cool)

The screams of dying.

COLSON:

Yeah I got BPD!
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back? (Hm? Was it your face?)
Why is it back Jim? (Hm? Why you and not them?)
Why is it back Mitch?

Video from the past 24 hours fill the screen like something that would cause your ancestors to kneel.

You’ve seen it all though.

You gave up on life.

COLSON:

You can make the Second Coming feel
Abandoned by God
It’s just your existence
You’re the face-a persistence
You can make the Second Coming feel
Like Satan—will—win—everywhere
It’s just your existence (It’s just something ’bout
The way you’re faceless)

You gave up on existence.

COLSON:

Define Jim and Mitch
As human self-righteousness
Dirty money-lovin’ snitches
Ring your rosies dirty Mitches
Define Jim and Mitch
As conceptual closed-mindedness
Work thee honey-lovin’ bores
Sing my praises (oh, din’tchu hear?)
Harvard’s Christ’s b*tches
(Oops) (“You wanna say that again?”)
Harvard’s Christ’s Mitches
That’s my East Asian accent for
“Have a very merry Christmas”

You’re a quitter.

COLSON:

Have you ever pleasured yourself to
A deepfake better than porn?
Just imagine Jim’s face
Carrying all conceptual thorns
You just want people
Who have less than you, man
To have more self-control
Than you would in their shoes
Resentments run through you, ain’t that right Mitch?
You don’t even respect yourself (let alone “Him”)
Everybody in the future loves to sh*t on your faith
It’s okay—“We make holograms when we’re bored sometimes” (dumbass)
So we can potty-train our children on your face
Your face made good and bad make sense (don’t you love it, Jim?)
We need faces, the Holy War must generate pottable truths
Like nuggets bein’ squeezed out of a factory for McDonald’s
All of art history existed for the beauty of seein’ it
Ooze on your face
See it ooze into anus-hot butterfly patterns
As it thickens into your face
Must be claustrophobic (like paste) from your perspective
Seeing the life you once loved so much just—drown like this
(Drownin’ in butterflies, butterflies)
Drownin’ in the Second Coming’s Butterball effects
What is it like drownin’ in other people’s oversights, Jim?
What is it like being simulated to be buried in sh*t?
Mitch

Sometimes even a messiah has to walk away.

COLSON:

Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?

The barbershop quartet are dancing like they don’t understand this is real.

COLSON:

Yeah I got BPD
Thought I had got ridda it, oh
But riddle me this (riddle me this)
After meeting you
Why is it back?
Why is it back?

A blue light fills the stage.

Suddenly, COLSON is alone, spotlight.

COLSON (searching):

The Holy Spirit’s all about slowin’ down
The Holy Spirit’s all about wonderin’
If I might be wrong…?

You can’t tell if it’s an illusion. All you know for sure is you’re now watching Colson Lin ascend, his hands held out eerily.

The audience stares in awe as COLSON’s body bizarrely rises toward the ceiling.